17. Belle
BELLE
G oing into heat with Theo three days ago was a bad idea. Then waking up to read that Lady Inkwell has posted it in her column? What is up with that woman? Doesn't she sleep? Besides, I thought her column was weekly, but with the ball coming up, it's like it's every damn day.
It's as if she's everywhere and anywhere, that no one wants her to be and she's all up in my business.
If I don't go, then everyone will know that what she has written is true, but that's not the problem.
The real issue is that Adam likes reading her column.
If he has read it today, then he knows that I've been hiding something dangerous from him.
The best friend I once had will be lost, but I can't get over the dress I'm wearing, the make-up on my face, nor the countless hours that I've spent trying to figure out how to do my hair.
I've never looked in the mirror and considered myself to be pretty, let alone beautiful, but right here and now, this is exactly how I feel.
The rose gold dress hugs my curves in all the right places without making me feel exposed.
The moment I slipped it on, I understood what people meant when they talked about finding "the dress.
" The color brings out the warm amber flecks in my dark eyes that I never knew existed, makes my skin look luminous instead of pale.
For the first time in my adult life, I don't feel like I'm hiding behind my clothes, but celebrating what's underneath them.
Every curve, every soft place, that I've spent years apologizing for or trying to minimize suddenly feels.
.. intentional. Beautiful. Like maybe I was designed this way on purpose.
My hair, usually pulled back in a practical ponytail that screams "responsible librarian," falls in loose waves around my shoulders.
The process of achieving this seemingly effortless look involved three different YouTube tutorials, two complete do-overs when I burned myself with the curling iron, and enough hairspray to damage the ozone layer.
But the result is worth every minute of frustration.
The waves catch the light as I move, framing my face in a way that makes my features look softer, more romantic.
I'd started at six this morning, watching video after video of beauty influencers who made contouring look as natural as breathing.
My first attempt had me looking like I'd been attacked by a bronzer brush.
The second try was better, but something about the eyeshadow made me look like I had two black eyes.
By the third attempt, I was ready to give up and go bare-faced, but then I remembered Lady Inkwell's column, and the way she'd made my private moment with Theo sound sordid and scandalous.
This means that half the town will be watching me tonight, waiting to see if the rumors were true, if quiet little Belle Hartwell was really involved with the notorious Beast Pack.
So I tried again. Until finally, everything came together.
The foundation that evened out my skin tone without making me look like a painted doll.
The eyeshadow that brought out the darkness in my eyes without overwhelming them.
The lipstick —a bold choice for me—that made my mouth look fuller, more confident.
When I catch glimpses of myself in reflective surfaces now, I do a double-take. Is that really me? The woman in the mirror looks poised, elegant, like she belongs at fancy parties and sophisticated gatherings. Like she has every right to walk into a palace and expect to be welcomed.
If Adam has read Lady Inkwell's column this morning...
I force myself to stop spiraling and check my phone for the tenth time in the last hour.
No messages from Adam, which could mean anything.
Maybe he hasn't read it yet, but that seems unlikely given his Sunday morning routine of coffee, toast, and a thorough scan of all local news sources.
Maybe he doesn't believe gossip columns even if he's always been a sucker for Lady Inkwell's dramatic revelations.
Maybe he's planning to confront me about it tonight, in public, where I can't escape.
Or he has already decided our friendship is over and just doesn't know how to tell me.
My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart jumps into my throat: "Ready when you are. Picking you up in 10."
Ten minutes to mentally prepare for either the best night of my life or the moment I lose my best friend forever. .
I grab my clutch, and the ornate mask I spent far too much money on.
The mask had been an impulse purchase, chosen more for how it made me feel than for any practical consideration.
It's a delicate creation of rose silk and gold filigree that matches my dress perfectly, with tiny seed pearls sewn along the edges that catch the light like dewdrops.
When I hold it up to my face in the mirror, I'm transformed. Not Belle Hartwell, small-town librarian who lives quietly and causes no trouble. This is someone else entirely, who is mysterious and alluring, and she belongs at a masquerade ball in a palace.
As I lock my apartment door behind me, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror one more time. The woman looking back at me is beautiful, in a real authentic way that seems to glow from the inside out.
Beautiful. I actually look beautiful.
Whatever happens tonight, at least I'll face it looking like the best version of myself. Even if that version is about to be shattered by the terror in my best friend's eyes.
Adam's car is outside when I emerge from my building, and my heart sinks immediately.
Even through the windshield, I can read his body language like a book I've been studying for twenty years.
The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his hands grip the steering wheel just a little too tightly.
The complete absence of the warm smile that usually greets me when we're about to do something together.
He knows.
I slide into the passenger seat, hyperaware of how the dress rustles around me, how different I must look to him. I catch a faint whiff of my own perfume, which is another treat I bought for tonight. It's floral and feminine, something I've never worn before tonight.
"Hey," I say softly, testing the waters.
"Hey." His voice is flat, and he doesn't look at me as he pulls away from the curb. No comment on my appearance, no teasing about how fancy I look, no excited chatter about the evening ahead.
Then I realize it's not just his job to fill the silence, but the words won't come out of my mouth. It's like I'm already disappointed about what's going to happen before it actually does.
We drive in silence for several blocks, the tension so thick I can practically taste it.
The radio plays some pop song about love and second chances that feels way too on the nose right now.
I want to turn it off, but I'm afraid even that small movement might break whatever fragile control he's got going on.
The streets of Willbrook look different at this hour, the coffee shop where Adam and I have spent countless Sunday mornings, the bookstore where we both worked during high school, the park where we used to study together during college breaks.
Years of shared history flowing past the windows, and all I can think about is how it might all be ending tonight.
Finally, I can't stand it anymore. The silence is killing me, and if we're going to have this conversation, I'd rather get it over with than spend the entire evening walking on eggshells.
"Adam, if there's something you want to say…”
"How long?" he interrupts, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
My heart stops. Two words, but they carry the weight of fear and decades of friendship hanging in the balance. "How long what?"
"How long have you been in danger?" He finally turns to look at me at a red light, and the terror in his eyes makes me want to curl up and disappear.
It's worse than anger would have been, because it's the look of someone who's just realized their closest friend has been walking a tightrope over an abyss while they stood by completely oblivious.
"How long have you been an omega, Belle?"
I could deny it, and pretend that I don't know what he's talking about. Then again, I could try to convince him that Lady Inkwell made the whole thing up. But the exhaustion of keeping secrets suddenly overwhelms me.
I'm tired of pretending, and making myself smaller and quieter than I am.
“A year,” I whisper.
He exhales sharply, like I've punched him in the stomach. The sound is harsh in the quiet car, and I watch his face crumple for just a moment before terror replaces every other emotion.
“One fucking year, Belle." His voice cracks on my name, and I can hear the panic underneath the words. "Do you have any idea how terrified I am right now? Thinking about everything that could have happened to you while I was completely clueless?"
Tears prick at my eyes, threatening to ruin the makeup I worked so hard on. "Adam, I was being careful…”
"Careful?" His voice breaks completely on the word, and I realize with a shock that his hands are shaking. "Careful how? An omega alone, hiding, with no pack protection? Jesus, Belle, you could have been hurt, or worse, and I wouldn't have even known to look for you."
"It wasn't like that!" The words burst out of me with more force than I intended. "Adam, I had it under control. I take suppressants, I know how to manage everything. I was never in the kind of danger you're imagining."
"Do you have any idea what happens to hidden omegas in this world?
" The light turns green, but he doesn't move until the car behind us honks impatiently.
"Do you know the statistics? The stories?
God, Belle, every time you were 'sick' and staying home alone.
What if something had happened? What if you'd gone into heat and there was no one there to help you? "